The Last Wood

August 31, 2015


A family tree?
Forget it. A few burnt stumps,
some with their gibbets.

Elsewhere are green shoots
same genus, different leaves,
offering no shade.

Grafting with fresh stock
blurs memories of shared folk
shames secrets, dooms hopes.

Love’s grown, it’s bonsai’d;
its forest veils all these dreams,
dappled miniatures.

Only one bud swells,
one sweet bloom scents the arbour.
One fruit ripening.

Now waiting, with dread,
for a cold snap, for windfalls
when heavy with seed.

Fanni Mari

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